


Your Rapey Ways

by Dame_Syrup (mary_pseud)



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: Blowjobs, Drug-Induced Sex, F/M, Forced Sex, Kinkmeme, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Rape, The Valiant (Doctor Who), Torchwood - Freeform, fairies with wings, magic perfume, mini-doctor, sex pollen equivalent, unexpected magical beings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-14 23:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16050779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_pseud/pseuds/Dame_Syrup
Summary: For the kinkmeme prompt: Master/Owen; with extras from this macro (the macro is long gone, but showed Burn Gorman with little glowing replicas of the Tenth Doctor flying out of his mouth and around his head.  Anyone know the source?)





	Your Rapey Ways

There was no two ways about it, Owen Harper thought: he was in the shit this time.

Only a few hours ago he'd been traipsing around in a blizzard with the rest of Torchwood, mentally calculating how long it would be before his toes froze off. Then a tap on his shoulder, a harder tap on his head, and he was on the Valiant. The Master's headquarters.

As he was stripped of his winter clothes (they left him his jeans and shirt, at least) and hustled down several anonymous steel corridors, he frantically tried to think of what he could have done that would have brought him to the Master's attention. Was he after all of Torchwood? Fuck, he hadn't even thought of that. What if they were all here, in separate cells or something, waiting for someone to rescue them?

He swallowed, trying to smother his fear. He was shoved into what looked like an office, and the door closed behind him with a firm thud.

The Master. There he was, right there: a sandy-haired bloke, his too-normal face and clothes hiding a crazed alien mind. Owen felt like he could just step across the room and break his neck – which was certainly not the case. There must be guards, human or otherwise. Then his gaze went to the woman in the room, and the deep nausea of fear in his stomach sank downwards to grip at something more intimate.

It had to be Lucy Saxon. Blonde hair, red lips, a well-fitted suit, but would he know her if she'd been wearing something more flash, something you'd wear to a pub? He remembered his string of chemically-aided one-night stands, could he have – did he know her –

"I did not have sexual relations with that woman," he spluttered to the Master.

"Oh really?" The Master reached behind him and plucked a bottle off his desk – a spray bottle containing a familiar glowing fluid. "Well, you will."

He sprayed Lucy with the alien perfume, and the world vanished. Everything vanished.

There was only her: her lips, her eyes, her body right there, perfect and oh-so-attainable. He didn't remember crossing the room, or embracing her: he only felt the thunderclap of ecstasy as his lips met hers, parted them urgently with his tongue.

Her lips were slack, unmoving. He wanted her to react, wanted to please her, wanted – he knew what would please her.

He fell to his knees, parted her thighs (so perfect, even with the lines of bruises across them) and dove into her bare crotch tongue-first. The tiny tuft of pubic hair tickling the bridge of his nose as he sucked her inside his mouth, licking hard at her, rasping her with his tongue until he felt her shiver and tasted new wetness on his tongue. Yes, yes, yes-

Something cool brushed past his cheek, and when he turned to look, he got an entirely unwelcome view of the Master's erection. He was still wearing his suit; only his penis was bare, jutting out to sink just the head between Lucy's pussy lips. "Keep going," he ordered, and Owen did – with considerably more reluctance. He didn't want the Master fucking her; he wanted to be there where he was, inside Lucy, feeling her wrapped around him, thrusting inside her.

And he didn't want this man's cock in his mouth, or anywhere near him really.

Hard fingers grabbed his ear and twisted, and he looked upwards just as the Master doused himself with the perfume.

The fire in Owen's heart doubled. Suddenly both of them were the most irresistible creatures he had ever seen in his life. He practically pounced on Lucy, but now his tongue was eager to slide over the Master's erection, slip inside her along with it. He as afraid to raise his hands, but he wanted to. He wanted to finger her until she screamed, he wanted to – damn, he could imagine fingering the Master as well. Stretching his arse wide, burying his cock inside-

"I'm bored," Lucy said. Twitching her hips aside, she moved away, wandering to the door and leaving.

That let Owen get the Master all the way in his mouth, at last. He tasted, rolled his tongue around and around the tip, flicking at the tight-stretched foreskin and the sensitive rim. He sucked, despairing, a tiny tiny voice inside his head telling him that he shouldn't do this, that he didn't want this. That he should just bite and hope the man bled to death before the guards arrived. Swallow the blood, that's it, gag on it-

"Slower," and Owen obediently slowed, stroking the Master's shaft with wet lips, letting the back of his throat catch the head. That tiny voice was louder now, and it suddenly wasn't just any voice. It was Martha's voice.

Martha Jones. The woman who walked the Earth, telling people about the Doctor. She'd met Owen, and they'd talked about – all sorts of things. And when he'd told her about Torchwood, her dark eyes had grown very still.

"You know that you're a target, don't you," she'd said, and it was not a question.

"Course I do," Owen had retorted.

She'd made him an offer. A little blue capsule, and a machine that slid down his throat and implanted it in the wall of his oesophagus. It was some sort of energy concentrator, she'd said: if he activated it near the Doctor, he would be saved, and he would save them all.

Owen didn't believe a word of it. It was a bomb, he was sure of it. But as he felt the Master's pre-come start to froth on his tongue, and imagined what the man would do to him after the perfume wore off, well, the bomb didn't seem like such a bad way to go.

He concentrated on the Doctor. He pictured him, scruffy hair, long coat, skinny, dark eyes full of pain, he thought hard, sucking and thinking, harder and harder-

The Master moaned, and shot his load into Owen's mouth. Owen looked up from his knees, his mouth suddenly wide, and blue light flooded from his throat, rising in him, making his cheeks almost transparent as something emerged from him.

It was a man. A little man. A little blue man, and he flew, light streaming around him like wings. Owen gagged, and another little man flew out of his mouth. Another and another. A stream of them, circling the Master like a carousel wheel, the tracks of their passage leaving little bands of light that cut into the Master's flesh like knives.

There was no blood, but the Master gave one indescribable shriek of pain and collapsed.

"Fuck me, I'm full of fairies," Owen said in a hollow voice, before spitting to clear the musky taste out of his throat. He looked up at the circling little men, and realised that they were – they were the Doctor. Right down to the suit!

And they were looking at him. Noticing him, oh my God. What were they going to do? What was he going to do? Was there some way to combine them into one person again? Owen giggled to himself, imagining somehow splitting into a tiny swarm of mini-Owens and flying away.

He staggered to his feet – his calves were killing him - and fumbled at the desk, trying to get his balance. The bottle of alien perfume skittered away from his fingers, and then fell, dousing him with the stuff.

Owen inhaled, smelling himself, and then looked up at the tiny circling Doctors.

They could smell him too.

They all licked their lips in unison, and dived to the attack.

 


End file.
